The Voyage of the Dolphin (7 page)

BOOK: The Voyage of the Dolphin
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‘Skip?'

‘A f—ing periscope.'

‘You sure?'

McGregor passed the glasses to the first mate.

‘No question. It's a f—ing U-boat.' He turned and signalled to the bosun in the wheelhouse to stop the engine.

Crozier could see something moving now, about two miles off, a solid black line trailing a foamy wake. He gripped the top of the gunwale. There was a thinner upright as well, and he imagined he saw a flash of reflected light.

‘Have they spotted us?'

‘Not sure.' McGregor took out a cigarette and tapped it on the packet. ‘Surprising if they haven't, mind you, seeing as we're the only f—ing ship for a hundred square miles.'

‘Hello, hello, what's happening, is it another whale?' Fitzmaurice and Rafferty joined them, followed by Phoebe, and all three fanned out along the rail.

‘No it's not,' Harris muttered. ‘It's our friend Fritz in his little
Unterseeboot
.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Have they seen us? Are we in danger?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Surely it's obvious we're not military? Or commercial, for that matter? They wouldn't dare target us… would they?'

McGregor growled long and deep and flobbed a mouthful over the side.

Phoebe frowned. ‘How elegant.'

‘What do we do, Skipper?' Harris said.

‘If the wind gets up I suppose we might stand a chance of outrunning them,' McGregor surveyed the clouds overhead, ‘but other than that I can't see we've many options. Keep track of them. I'm going below.'

A few minutes later Harris scuttled away in the direction of the wheelhouse, leaving the others adrift in their own thoughts. They watched until the light dimmed and the object, indistinct to begin with, evaporated into the grey.

8
'I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby'

‘Don't you think seven spades might be a tad ambitious?' Phoebe eyed her partner over the top of her cards.

‘Not in the least,' Fitzmaurice replied. ‘This one's in the bag.'

The four of them were at the end of the mess table closest to the fire. The lamps were lit. The rest of the crew had dispersed, except for Victoor, who sat at the other end spooning cold stew from a bowl.

‘By the way…' Crozier glanced over at the cook. ‘… anybody know what the meat was we had for dinner?' He lowered his voice. ‘
Was
it, in fact, meat?'

‘Tinned ham.' Rafferty slapped a card down. ‘And that's our trick, I think.'

‘I assumed it was chicken,' Phoebe said. ‘Poor things.'

‘Well, it certainly wasn't roast pheasant. Damn!' Fitzmaurice jerked his head back. ‘I didn't see that coming.'

‘Wouldn't surprise me if it was seagull.' Crozier threw down the ace of spades. ‘Cook's always awake before anyone else. I bet he's up on deck with a net.'

‘I've noticed there are fewer rats around the bilge pump,' Fitzmaurice murmured.

‘Seagull, chicken, rat, what does it matter? — Hugh, what on earth? — If we're going to eat other living creatures, it's arbitrary to distinguish — Hugh, for crying out…'

‘I disagree,' Rafferty said. ‘There are lots of reasons — thank you Fitz, keep them coming — for drawing lines. Take the seagull, for instance, one of nature's scavengers, its flesh is generated from the most awful rubbish and therefore likely to taste accordingly.'

‘Only increases my suspicion,' said Crozier.

‘I was speaking from a moral standpoint.' Phoebe glared at her partner. ‘Hugh, for heavensake…'

‘Trickier than you think, this game, isn't it?' Fitzmaurice surveyed his remaining cards. He selected one then changed his mind. ‘Speaking of tricky game, I must tell you a story.' He slammed a surefire loser on the table. ‘I was out shooting with Cousin Ninian one time up in Westmeath. It was the damnedest thing. We hadn't had a single sniff the whole day, it was freezing cold, we were hungry and miserable and just on the verge of giving up – crikey, not again, sorry Phoebe — and we came out of some woods and into rough grass and next thing Ninian steps on the biggest pheasant I've ever seen – size of a bloody turkey and glossy as a peacock, an absolute beauty – and breaks its neck, snap! Just like that—'

‘Really Hugh, that was pathetic, why didn't you listen to me?'

‘Sorry, Phoebe, I told you I wasn't good at the mathematical stuff... Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, old Ninian wants to show off to the girls back at the house that he's a real hunter and can handle a gun and so on, so he has me throw the blasted thing up in the air – make it look realistic — while he takes pot shots at it. Uses all our ammo and can't score a hit — closest to death I've ever come, I can tell you — and then, with the very last shell, he blows the bloody thing into the top of a chestnut tree…' He trailed off, staring at the fireplace. ‘And that was the end of it. I still wonder how that bird would have tasted.'

Phoebe gathered the cards together. Fitzmaurice had reminded them of the bounty back on dry land, beyond the reach of Victoor and his dark culinary arts. Rafferty was thinking of the ivory-seamed steak at the Bailey, Phoebe of her mother's Victoria sponge, Crozier of fat trout pulled from the lough beside his grandfather's house in County Fermanagh. Roasted. With lemon and bay.

‘Another round?'

‘Not for me, Phoebe.' Fitzmaurice pushed back from the table. ‘If you'll excuse me, my journal won't write itself.'

‘You and your journal. It sounds very intriguing,' Phoebe said in an innocent tone. ‘When are we going to be allowed to read it?'

‘Haha, not any time soon I'm afraid. My publisher will be the first to have sight of it when our expedition is over.'

‘You have a publisher?'

‘Well no, actually, not as such, but I thought I might try Uncle Ernest's people in London. They're sure to be interested. Two heroes in one family? I anticipate a bit of a sensation.' And he left the room smiling to himself.

‘What shall we do now?' Phoebe said. ‘I wonder if Victoor would make up a four.' She peered into the gloom. ‘Victoor?' She held up the deck.

‘Nee. Dank u. Nee lucky.'

‘I know.' Rafferty produced his banjolele from the shadows. ‘Let's have an auld song.'

After a neuralgic preamble, he sang, in his high, clear tenor,
Sweet Rosie O'Grady.
Phoebe, Crozier noticed, having been poised to make her excuses, eased back in her chair and cocked her head to one side. The Dubliner followed up with
I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby
, halfway through which the door opened and the twins, attracted by live entertainment, entered and took their places to either side of Victoor.
Love's Old Sweet Song
was next and Crozier couldn't help but think Rafferty was laying it on a bit thick. He had to acknowledge though that the vocals were good. Not quite top class (lacking the body weight perhaps), but rich in tone, and supple in melisma.

‘Anyone else?' Rafferty said. ‘Don't let me hog the limelight.'

‘No, keep going Frank, you have a great voice,' Phoebe held out her hands, ‘but give me that banjo—'

‘Banjo
lele
.'

‘And I'll have a go at that A-string for you.'

Doyle arrived carrying, much to everyone's surprise, a small accordion, and without a word sat to one side and raised his eyebrows at the singer.

‘The bosun's a musician, who'd have thought it,' Rafferty cried. ‘Doyle, you look like a man who might know a verse or two of
Tread Softly
On Me Praties.'

Towards the end of that song, McGregor entered carrying a bottle and poured everyone a jigger, and after an interlude, Crozier, emboldened by the grog, sang the only piece to which he knew all the words:
My
Lagan Love
; and then they all joined in
Spanish Ladies
, McGregor providing a particularly disquieting baritone. The bottle passed around until it was empty, and eventually Rafferty was asked for a final one to seal the night. He was dithering, suddenly at a loss, until Phoebe said, ‘In the public house near Ennisfree there was a man who used to sing a song called
The Lass of Aughrim
, a lovely tune. Do you know it?'

‘I do indeed.' Rafferty was relieved. ‘Though it's very sad. Will you sing it with me? For company?'

Phoebe smiled and shook her head.

‘I'd only spoil it.'

Rafferty took back his banjolele and picked out the melody while Doyle swayingly provided bass colour, his eyebrows writhing in time.

‘
If you'll be
the lass of Aughrim
,' Rafferty sang, ‘
as I suppose you
not to be…
'

He had closed his eyes but the dying fire reflecting in his spectacles gave the impression that they were preternaturally agleam.

‘
Come
tell me of that
first token / That passed between you and me
…'

Crozier had heard the song only once before, late one Friday night: a man in a battered suit, with his hat in his hand, much the worse for ale on the corner of Wicklow Street, the half-remembered lyrics delivered in an anguished tremolo that hastened the step of every passer-by. This, now, was a different thing altogether. And then another voice, also sweet, but softer, less formal, as Phoebe joined in.

‘
Oh don't you remember / That night on yon
lean hill / When we both met together
…'

Rafferty faltered for a half-second before modulating his tone to accommodate Phoebe's lower pitch.

‘
O the rain falls on my yellow
locks

And the dew it wets my skin,

My babe
lies cold within my arms

But none will let me
in
.'

 

The harmonising was effortless, the singers anticipating, entwining, caressing. Crozier found himself disembodied, far beyond the space they occupied, picturing from above, the ship like a toy on the surface of the ocean, its tiny constellation of marker lamps moving through the darkness, and this faint sound from within: human voices, not talking, but singing; singing to each other of all the pity, all the sorrow of love, as though they could somehow inoculate themselves against it. The fragility of their predicament struck him yet again: nothing but a few planks of wood between them and the deep.

He glanced over at Rafferty and Phoebe, who were on the last verse, intently watching each other's eyes the way duettists sometimes do, and a sensation passed through him, a tingling along the nape of his neck, familiar from childhood. He imagined the two singers, on a day far in the future, in a Georgian drawing room, with long burgundy drapes, in front of a fire that crackled in the hearth of a black marble fireplace. And, just as quickly, the image was gone, and along with everyone else he began to applaud.

*

Next morning, the skipper announced that they were passing the Westman Islands to starboard, and that, barring storms, they were only one more sleep from Reykjavik. After more than a week on the open sea this led to much excitement. ‘You'll be on land soon enough,' grumbled McGregor, whose humour had never fully recovered from the U-boat sighting. ‘There's still plenty of work tae be done.' He began dishing out tasks: Crozier and Phoebe were given sail-mending duty, while Rafferty and Doyle were ordered down to the hold to sort equipment for a landing party. Victoor made a lugubrious start on an inventory of supplies. (‘Don't forget parsnips and apples for Bridie,' Fitzmaurice instructed. ‘And plenty of greens to keep her regular.')

It was overcast but dry, and surprisingly mild, so Crozier and Phoebe sat on the deck forward of the wheelhouse and spread the sailcloth between them, working along the ripped seams with their stitching awls and lengths of catgut. Crozier required a little guidance to begin with but Phoebe dispensed it with good humour.

‘Did you know,' Crozier said after a while, ‘that the man who invented Braille blinded himself with an awl?'

Phoebe paused.

‘Why did he do that?'

‘He didn't mean to, it was an accident. He was a child and he was playing with his father's tools, trying to make a hole in a piece of leather.'

‘I see. I mean… That's interesting.'

‘No, the interesting thing is that he then devised Braille – you know, the raised dots? –
using
an awl.'

‘How ironic.'

‘Isn't it?'

‘Mysterious ways.'

Bunion came around the corner, his big wedge head swaying from side to side. He brightened when he saw Crozier and plodded over for a rheumy-eyed nuzzle.

‘Bugger off, Bunion, there's a good boy.'

‘Don't you like dogs?'

Crozier shrugged. ‘For some reason I don't like touching
that
one.'

Bunion settled himself on the wheelhouse steps, where he could keep a loving eye on his adopted master.

‘I thought men of the cloth were supposed to love all God's creatures.'

‘I'm not a man of the cloth.'

‘Yes, but you're going to be, aren't you?'

‘I doubt it.'

‘Why not? I thought that was the idea.'

‘It was at one time but…'

‘But what?'

‘I'm not sure I believe in God any more.'

‘Ah. Yes. I can see that might be a disadvantage.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Any reason?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘What changed your mind? Look around you, all this…' She waved a hand in the air. ‘Where did it all come from?'

‘You mean what happened on the day without a yesterday?'

Crozier stopped what he was doing, took in the billowing sails, the webs of cordage and the big bowl of sky, felt the liquid friction of the ship's motion. The girl was watching him, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face.

‘You tell me.'

Fitzmaurice was in his cabin struggling with the bible-thick instruction manual for the Magiflex Rectograph Imperial. He had managed to attach the extended shutter-release tube to the casing using the Deckel screw provided
(fig
.199)
but, squeeze the rubber bulb as he might, there was no response. He swiped at the pages. From
fig.201
onwards the task of explanation seemed to have been given over to a drunk man working with an entirely different device, something that was possibly not even a camera. Strange new procedures and components were being introduced. Why did technology have to be so difficult, he wondered.

He regarded the scene he had carefully composed – the scattered books, the open journal, his pipe smouldering on its stand – and imagined how the photograph would show him deep in thought, pen on lip, frozen for posterity in contemplation of the silent wilderness within. He turned to the miniature looking-glass on the wall and rehearsed a variety of pouts.
So
young
, he heard future visitors to his museum remarking,
to
lead such an important expedition. And yet there it is
already in his face, you can see it: the leadership,
the heroism…

Reinvigorated, he returned to the obstinate contraption and, after staring at its complicated rear-view for a minute, twiddled with the aperture dial. He squeezed the bulb. Nothing. He fiddled with the focus. Nothing. He flicked a tiny lever he hadn't noticed before, squeezed again, and this time the mechanism responded. Progress! He glanced over at the desk. The sun through the porthole was diffracting atmospherically through bands of pipesmoke. Perfect.

BOOK: The Voyage of the Dolphin
10.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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